A Day In The Life Of Mr Cunt.
Mr Cunt wakes to the sound of the his newspaper hitting his doormat, the crunch of the paper boy’s footsteps on his gravel drive a forewarning of the teeth gnashing shite the paper specialises in.
After a demonic shit and a cursory wash of his hands, Mr Cunt walks downstairs to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on. He gets two slices of bread and places them in the toaster. He farts the first six notes of God Save The Queen.
He picks up the paper. On the front is a story about children in Calais being 63 years old. On page 3 there is a picture of Kate Middleton with her two small children. The picture gives him an erection. The toast pops.
Mr Cunt gets the butter out, gets the marmalade out. He still buys Golden Shred in the hope that collective sanity will prevail and they will once again have golliwogs on the tin. He makes his tea and returns to the newspaper.
Page 4 is a story of a sex change Nigerian family of health tourists who have been put up at taxpayers expense in a purpose built mosque made from the wrecked Mercedes Diana died in. It costs £100,000 a day to house them. On Page 5 a BBC presenter is being called a shithouse by a veteran of four World Wars for not wearing a poppy whilst presenting the Goal of the Month for August.
Mr Cunt chomps away at his toast, growling in between mouthfuls, harrumphing at every news story his eyes feast upon. “We’ve got our country back, fucker” he belches at a picture of a Polish woman who’s been beaten up outside a Wetherspoons.
On Page 26 there is a review of a film called Death of A Sponger. It is a film made by Mr Cunt’s hero, Leonard Cock. The story is about a man who has never worked a day in his life, living on benefits of £800 a day in a luxury yacht off the Isle of Sheppey. A brave civil servant heroically brings a stop to this nonsense and, on his first day in work at a Burger King, Mr Cock’s protagonist accidentally falls (or is he pushed) into a deep fat fryer and is eaten by his fat kids. The review is by an old classmate of Mr Cunt’s and is given 5 stars out of 5.
Mr Cunt applauds this review. He punches the air. He walks to the lounge and gazes upon his beautifully manicured lawn and weeps for what this country has become.
He gets dressed, smart shirt, suit and tie. Polished shoes. He recycles one of last year’s poppies and buttonholes it to his jacket. He kisses his wife goodbye.
It is about 800 yards walk to Mr Cunts office but he doesn’t walk. Why buy a Bentley if you’re going to use your legs. As usual, he is immediately stuck in traffic. He phones his secretary and advises her that he’s going to be late. He does this whilst steering the car with his knees and turning up Born To Be Wild on the radio.
To be fair to Mr Cunt, the cyclist he knocked down thirty seconds later was exactly the kind of hipster arsehole that unites us all in hatred against him. He was stupid enough to be listening to his iPod, when Mr Cunt’s powerful motor car, freed from the ignominy of first gear, excitedly bumped the cyclist fifteen feet into the air.
Mr Cunt phones for an ambulance. Police come. Statements are given. The whole thing takes up all of Mr Cunt’s morning. It’s an absolute nightmare. People are gawping, filming the frantic CPR on their mobiles, staring at Mr Cunt as he explains to the policeman exactly what happened.
A gust of wind sends various bits of crap tumbling out of an overfilled bin. The green plastic stem of a dropped poppy sticks to a dog turd, straining to be free.
Mr Cunt thinks about his friend the Chief Constable. Everything will be fine. It always is.